


just another night in nantes

by jollypuppet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Worship, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Romance, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jollypuppet/pseuds/jollypuppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s poetry, Dean decides. And there’s no science to that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just another night in nantes

**Author's Note:**

> I promised a friend of mine that I'd write her fluffy, domestic Destiel, and I ended up writing this instead -- far less domestic, far more smutty. Eh, whatever, I can dig it.
> 
> Title comes from Beirut's [Nantes.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCkT4K-hppE)

He’s like a bird, really. Some complex skeleton of divinity and grace that Dean really can’t place, can’t particularly categorize. He tries to think of it scientifically, but convinces himself it’s something much more poetic.

The verses of Castiel’s body are etched underneath his fingertips, flowing from him like ink and staining the reality that wraps so haphazardly around him. The skin below him can’t be real, the blue of his eyes can’t be explained, the way his chest heaves and the dip of his stomach can’t be mapped out typically, more like a light, more like faith.

Dean’s never been one to think in terms of chemistry and physics, anyway, really. But he’s rooted in reality, and his reality is dark and it’s dirty and it curls around him and cradles him stiflingly, and so he’s gotten used to questioning things. That’s the way his mind works — when he doesn’t understand, he shuts down, and he works backwards.

If this is the result, then what was the cause?

It’s a question he doesn’t find himself answering often, not since he was young, at least. Dean never understood science or mathematics, and his history teachers had always put him to sleep, but he had had a firm grasp around language (or, at least, he thought so.) Perhaps he’s not eloquent, and he’s hardly refined, but he’s intelligent, and he’s  _curious_ , most of all.

He’s not religious, that’s for sure, but there has to be something devout about the way he rips Castiel apart so lovingly, lets him fall back together, cradles him as he breathes and slows and stops time around them.

Like a complex metalwork, or like a bird, perhaps. Like some fragile, beautiful, powerful, paradoxical thing. That’s what Castiel’s like, really — he’s an eternal paradox, something that Dean longs to unravel and revere. This angel of Thursday, this warrior of the Lord, everlasting and almighty, and he  _still_  doesn’t understand the complexities of Jeopardy. He still doesn’t understand how to fold a shirt. He still doesn’t understand the lightning that flows through Dean’s blood whenever he whimpers the hunter’s name.

So the best Dean can do is to tear him down with the hands of a man whose love could destroy empires, whose family and friends are held so close to him that they can feel him breathing even when far away — a man who loves Castiel so deeply, so  _helplessly_ , that he would stop the centuries just to be with him, who would stroll through fire with the vim and poise of a champion, and would spend hours with a grin on his face trying to explain the rules of Monopoly.

Then, he watches, and he touches, and he  _stares_ , and  _this_  is what it must feel like to be a real angel, Castiel thinks, because he’s never felt more worshiped in his life. Not when millions had bowed before him and prayed to him, not even when God had fashioned him out of light and holiness.

Dean always puts him back together in the end, and it’s comfortable, and it’s  _right_ , like his pieces were crammed away carelessly in the first place, and Castiel couldn’t care less it it’s sin, because it’s  _good_ , and he hasn’t felt this good since he was created, and not even then.

It’s poetry, Dean decides. And there’s no science to that.

“You’re thinking again.” Castiel mutters quietly, and Dean looks up, pinpointing Castiel in the dark. Castiel’s smiling — a small, lazy smile, but one of Dean’s favorites. Castiel doesn’t smile much anyway, so when he does, it’s like a thing people make false legends about. “Rather loudly, might I add.”  
  
Dean grins, and he moves his hands up slowly, letting his fingers feel the dips of skin between Castiel’s ribs, his thumbs circling the cavity of his stomach, moving down again to curve around his hips, and Castiel’s breathing is just the slightest bit heavier now.

“It’s a thing humans do, you know. Not like we can help it.”  
  
Castiel’s body reacts in very human ways, Dean has noticed. He shivers, and he gasps, and his pupils engulf his eyes, and his body flushes lightly when Dean touches him. His eyes are lidded when he looks down at Dean, and it’s like he’s drunk on atmosphere and space, because he couldn’t look happier, couldn’t look more  _angelic_. “You’re a modern poet, Dean Winchester.” he says quietly, with so much adoration dripping from his words that the air might as well smell of mint and lemon.

Dean looks up at him again, and tilts his head to the side. He’s still smiling when he speaks. “Don’t get all,” he pauses for a moment, searching for the right words to say, his voice quiet and lilting in the dim of the ambiance, “emotional on me or anything, Cas. I’m cool with mind-reading, but if you insist, read silently.”

Castiel scoffs, and Dean slips his hands up the angel’s sides, waiting for him to speak with a smirk. “What can I say?” he starts quietly, staring at the ceiling, his eyes still dark and deep and pooling with curiosity and thought. “You’re so strange. You grew up hunting, and you  _act_  like it, but your mind —” Castiel stops when Dean chuckles, and the angel frowns, pushing himself up onto his elbows to look at Dean. “Don’t doubt me, Dean.”  
  
The hunter shrugs. He wants to act nonchalant, like Castiel’s words roll off him like water, but he’d be lying to himself. He soaks up the angel’s words, lets them seep into him and tangle with who he is, and it’s like he’s got that poetry etched inside of him. “What are you going to say, then? I’m some special snowflake?”  
  
“You’re the brightest soul I’ve ever seen.” Castiel says quietly, reverently. “Is that enough? I’m not sure what frozen molecules of water have to do with it, but when I look inside you, I see nothing but light. Nothing but…” he trails off, like he can’t continue, like if he does he’ll trivialize all that Dean  _is_ , all that makes Dean the one and only charge of Castiel, angel of Thursday.

Castiel bites his lip, and Dean can’t hold himself back.

He moves up from where he’s been perched above the angel’s stomach, slowly and carefully, like there’s a moment of time between them that holds all the wonders of the world under the most brittle and frail glass in all of the galaxy, and when he kisses Castiel, it all stops. Nothing shatters, Hell doesn’t freeze over, wars don’t break out, plague doesn’t sweep nations, but he delves his tongue into the angel’s mouth and he  _whines_ , falling back against the mattress and looping his arms around Dean’s neck, holding him close as he’s explored like the deepest cave in the darkest ocean.

When Dean pulls away, his breath intermingling with Castiel’s, he stares for a moment at this being that’s succumbed to him, and he  _revels_  in it. Castiel’s hair is mussed, but he has a sort of determination in his eyes that surges Dean forward. The hunter mouths a hot line down the angel’s throat, sucking at the pulse point near his collar, and Castiel, overly-sensitive and probably not ready just yet (but caution be damned,  _Dean Winchester_  has control of his body, and that’s worth the Grace that pulses deep within him) gasps raggedly, arching into the hunter.

Dean’s hands slip underneath Castiel as he curves upward, and they find his shoulder blades, where his wings attach invisibly to his back. Dean wants to  _see_  them, those shadowy masses of black downy, wants to run his hands through the feathers and pull at the quills, wants to make Castiel  _shake_  with it, but this is enough for now, and he massages the curve of his bones where he  _knows_  Castiel feels most human, and the broken moan that rips from the angel’s throat is  _glorious_.

“ _Dean_ …” he cries, and he’s biting his  _lip_  again, the damn bastard, and Dean wants to break him  _so badly_. The hunter moves up again, slots their lips together, licks into his mouth lazily, and lines their hips up. When he rolls down, he swallows the ragged cry that tears from Castiel’s mouth, and keeps a consistent rhythm with the hands at Castiel’s shoulders.

He breaks their mouths apart to start sucking at Castiel’s neck again, and the angel grips at his shoulders, these needy,  _filthy_  sounds falling from his throat, and Dean wants to keep him like this — broken and beautiful and oh so  _debauched_ , and Dean could do this forever.

Castiel comes with a scream, and for a moment, just the  _briefest_  moment, Dean can practically hear the high-pitched note of Castiel’s true voice, and it’s a beautiful sound, one that  _wrecks_ him, and he’s collapsing on top of the angel not soon after, breathing hard and seeing spots.

The angel winds arms around his waist, and Dean’s quick to anchor his own arms against the mattress, flipping them over, and Castiel’s staring down at him this time, those same blue eyes overwhelmed by darkness and  _love_  so deep it’s practically ethereal.

And he stares for a moment, in the quiet of the atmosphere and the space.

Dean doesn’t cover them over — it’s hot and it’s humid and it would stifle him, but with this angel poised above him, kissing him slowly and softly and whispering to him in Enochian and Corsican and all the languages of the Earth, Dean can’t be bothered with poetry or with science or with the temperature of the room.

It’s all swallowed up by space and serenity and he’s asleep before he knows it.


End file.
